


The Masked Antivan

by WardenCommanderCousland



Series: The Light in the Shadow [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, King Alistair, Minor Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Queen Cousland, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11705166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WardenCommanderCousland/pseuds/WardenCommanderCousland
Summary: The King of Ferelden has come to parlay with the Inquisition, but another mysterious guest at Skyhold grabs his attention.





	The Masked Antivan

The ball was an impromptu one, to celebrate the Breach’s closing and the election of the new Divine, as well as to honor the King’s visit.

Alistair wished they hadn’t bothered. He had come to Skyhold to formally discuss the Inquisition’s future, including the continued occupation in Crestwood. He frankly wasn’t concerned, but his uncles both encouraged him to take a stand, to keep Ferelden in a position of power over the Inquisition. They had been graciously received by Inquisitor Lavellan, who personally showed them to their quarters in Skyhold. Her presence tugged at Alistair, her long black hair momentarily reminding him of the absent Queen. The similarities ended there; the Inquisitor’s eyes were green where his wife’s were blue, and the Dalish’s skin was tanned and freckled from years of living out of doors.

It was a small wonder at how quickly the fete was thrown together. Leliana had said that Skyhold was a constant host to a variety of Ferelden and Orlesian nobles, and it seemed as though they were materializing out of the castle’s masonry. Alistair excused himself from the press of noblewomen, of varying pedigrees, vying for a dance. He’d discovered a staircase leading up to the balcony overlooking the castle’s great hall. It was richly furnished, and he took a moment to admire the Tevinter mosaics hanging along the walls. A peal of laughter echoed from the floor below.

He was surprised to find he wasn’t alone on the upper level; Commander Cullen was idly paging through a book. “Not much for dancing, either?” the Commander asked without glancing up. Alistair leaned against the open doorway, the light mountain breeze cool on his face. “I like dancing. I don’t like Orlesian countesses and Ferelden banns scheming to conceive a royal bastard to put on the throne.”

“It’s not without precedent,” Cullen chuckled, closing his book. “But I do know the feeling. I’ve had enough marriage proposals for the evening.” Alistair snorted. He walked back towards the railing overlooking the hall, watching the press of dancers. Eamon was dancing with the Inquisitor. He caught the Commander’s eyes following them. As the dance progressed, Eamon traded partners with the Tevinter mage Alistair had met in the library. He was now dancing with a masked Orlesian and laughing at something she’d said. The Tevinter spun the Inquisitor with a flourish as the dance ended and swept her into a dramatic dip. Cullen shook his head, smiling. “If it were anyone else, I’d be worried,” he said quietly.

“Pardon?” Alistair looked from the elf to the Commander.

“Our dear Commander is involved with the Inquisitor.” Leliana slipped her arm through Alistair’s. She was resplendent in a light blue ballgown and a delicate Orlesian mask. “It’s caused quite the stir at Skyhold.”

“Haven’t you found someone to murder yet? Or a tongue to cut out?” Cullen said dismissively, turning his face away from them. Leliana chuckled appreciatively and tugged lightly on Alistair’s arm. “Come, it’s been too long.” She led him back down the stairs, decrying the Commander’s lack of subtlety in his personal affairs. She pointed out various nobles, several of whom eyed the King as he passed by. They found Eamon along the way, still talking and laughing with the masked woman and Lady Montilyet. Not far behind, Alistair caught Isolde’s withering gaze. The former arlessa snapped her head back towards Teagan.

“Alistair, this is Lady Oriana Lanos of Rialto,” Eamon introduced the woman, who curtsied deeply. Alistair thought he spied the edge of a scar on her collarbone. When she righted herself, he caught a flash of deep blue eyes, the same color as her dress. She smiled and brushed an escaped black curl behind her ear.

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Your Highness,” she said in a thick Antivan accent. She shifted her posture and the pendant of her necklace slipped below the ballgown’s collar before Alistair could identify it.

The Inquisitor and the Tevinter joined them, with Commander Cullen not far behind. The Dalish elf was flushed and laughing, and she turned to affectionately stroke the general’s chin. Alistair allowed his mind to wander as the Antivan began flirting with the Tevinter. He observed an amused-looking qunari on the far side of the room and was shocked when the mage excused himself and joined the giant. The Antivan redirected her attention towards the Commander, clearly enjoying how flustered he became. She asked him to dance and when he stammered a non-committal response, the Inquisitor laughed and told him to go.

Inquisitor Lavellan turned to Alistair. “Would you care for a dance, Your Highness?” she asked, smoothing the black lace sleeves on her gown. Alistair was about to decline, but Eamon pushed him towards her. “It won’t do for the King to be a wallflower,” his uncle hissed in his ear. “You’ve turned down too many ladies already.”

Alistair led the Inquisitor onto the floor. The dance was a familiar one and the elf was light on her feet. He was surprised at how witty and engaging he found her; he’d always assumed the Herald of Andraste would be as stolid as the other Dalish he’d met. The brief interaction he’d had with her at Redcliffe had not put her personality on display, either. As the movement ended, the Antivan and Commander Cullen appeared at their elbows. “My lady Inquisitor, may I cut in? I think your poor Commander needs to be rescued.”

The elf smiled and gracefully took Commander Cullen’s arm, leading him away. The quartet struck up an Orlesian minuet and Alistair began leading the Antivan through the steps. “Are you enjoying Ferelden?” he asked politely, wondering how long he’d have to continue dancing before Eamon was satisfied.

“I love it here,” she said. “I’ve been away too long. My son complains about the cold though.”

Alistair turned the woman away from him and let her spin back in. “I imagine it’s a shock coming from Antiva.”

She nodded, “The first time I brought him to Ferelden, he got stuck to a metal pole and it took several bowls of hot water to release him.” The woman glanced around and then looked at Alistair dead on. “Tell me, Your Highness: have _you_ ever licked a lamppost in winter?”

Alistair nearly let go of the masked woman. She’d asked the question in perfect Ferelden, without a hint of accent. “You wicked temptress,” he said, a smile growing across his face. “You had nearly had me fooled.”

The Warden Commander’s blue eyes sparkled mischievously through the mask as they spun across the floor. “Eamon didn’t have a clue.”

“You think we can slip away?” Alistair nodded towards an open door. His wife took the lead and began guiding their dance to make an escape. As they flowed past the door, Alistair broke away and slipped through, his wife not far behind. There were a few courtiers in the hallway beyond, and Alistair led her wordlessly up the exterior stairs to his room. Once the door closed behind her, Evelyn Cousland removed the silver Orlesian mask from her face, pulling several rogue ebony curls from her hairstyle in the process. “Thank the Maker, you’re alive,” Alistair breathed.

He pulled her into a tight embrace and kissed her. Nearly two years of anxiety and longing unloaded from his shoulders as he breathed her in. She smelled of the road, of pine needles and rain. Taking another deep breath, he caught the faintest trace of old blood and fresh death, the smell of the Blight. The smell of a fellow Gray Warden. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered as she pulled away.

Alistair kissed her again on her forehead. Her cream-colored skin felt cool against his face. How many nights had he dreamed of holding his wife in his arms again? How many nightmares had he endured with visions of her falling to darkspawn? When he felt the false calling singing in his ears, how loud had it been for her?

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked. His fingers traced her hair, searching for the hidden pins that kept it in place. He’d missed the feel of Evelyn’s long, black curls between his fingers, brushing against his skin. The Warden Commander closed her dark blue eyes and pulled him close.

“It’s right here.”


End file.
